He saw him out of the corner of his eye, raising the RPG-7 to his shoulder. The fool. A single press of the trigger and the helo would be immolated. “Cease firing!” Korsakov bellowed, his words whipped away by the wind as he raced to Yuri’s side, knocking the rocket tube aside just as it fired.
Searing hot air from the backblast of the RPG fanned the assassin’s cheek as the grenade arced through the night, striking the side of a mountain hundreds of meters away. “What were you thinking?” Korsakov demanded, his nostrils flaring with anger. “She’s no good to us dead — we don’t get paid!”
For a long moment Yuri met his gaze — hatred flashing in those dark eyes — then the man from Leningrad turned away, apparently accepting the rebuke.
Korsakov nodded, walking to the edge of the helipad, his booted feet leaving tracks in the snow. In the light of the moon, he could still see the helicopter, maybe a thousand meters off now, fighting for altitude.
He raised his right hand to his brow, snapping off a mock salute. May you survive — until we meet again.
They found Klaus Jicha where he had fallen, blood staining the snow around his body, a tight grouping of bullet holes in the back of his neck, inches above the armor vest.
Marika felt for a pulse, but the body was already cold and stiffening. “He’s dead,” she announced.
Vic nodded, standing there with his Colt Delta Elite clutched in his left hand. “Never knew what hit him.”
None of them had. The mountain was silent now, but she couldn’t escape the feeling that their assailants were still out there.
The Russians, the bogeymen of her life. There was no mistaking that language — the orders she had heard barked out through the storm of gunfire.
She rose from her crouch beside Jicha’s body, a bitter curse escaping her lips.
Russ met her gaze, the hostage negotiator looking strangely out of place with the submachine gun in his hands. Uncomfortable.
Marika shook her head. They were both way too old for this crap. Too old and too weary.
A bone-chilling wind howled across the West Virginian mountaintop, but she was past feeling it, hatred burning like fire deep within her soul. “We’re going to kill them…”
Low. Fast. A pair of F-15s flashed past overhead as President Hancock descended the stairs from Air Force One, his Secret Service surrounding him like a Macedonian phalanx.
Loud didn’t begin to describe the fighter jets — his ears ringing from the noise.
Marine One sat fifty yards off on the tarmac, rotor blades turning. The Marine guard waiting beside it was wearing camouflage BDUs instead of dress blues, and he carried an M-16A4 at the ready.
Something was wrong. “What’s going on?” Hancock asked.
Hawkins materialized at his side, taking hold of his shoulder and hustling him into the Marine Whitehawk. “The FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team was ambushed in West Virginia,” the agent responded, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the engines. “At least thirty agents are dead — my orders are to get you to safety, Mr. President.”
“Shapiro? Haskel? They were supposed to be here — to meet me,” Hancock protested.
“The directors will be following in one of the decoy choppers. Now, we need to get you airborne, Mr. President.”
Chapter 11
They were out of the mountains now, flying west-southwest on a compass heading of 224 degrees. Out of the mountains, but not out of trouble. Not by any definition.
Harry’s gaze swept from right to left across the cockpit, watching the gauges, focusing on keeping the rotor RPM in the safe green arc, between 170 and 245.
He’d flown Sikorskys before — a lot of them had what pilots called a “heavy” collective, meaning that if you didn’t hold it up manually, it was going to drop, effectively cutting thrust to the main rotor and taking the chopper down with it. Something you rather wanted to avoid.
His left arm was numb, braced against his side as he grasped the collective — it felt like he was lifting the chopper up with one hand.
Despite the engine noise, the deafening roar of gears behind his head, he felt Han before he saw him, his head poking up from beneath the co-pilot’s seat, from the narrow passageway leading down into the passenger cabin.
“How is she?” It felt like he was shouting into a barrel, his voice ringing and reverberating in his own ears.
“Okay,” was the shouted reply as the SEAL hoisted himself up till his mouth was only inches from Harry’s ear. Han looked tired, his face pale in the control panel lights.
“Where are we?”
Harry shrugged. “Flying southwest, bro. Hanged if I know anything more. Been too busy keeping this heap of junk in the air. Passed over a river about five minutes ago, might have been the Kanawha.”
He saw his old friend’s eyes drift toward the gauges and Harry nodded. “Switching over to the reserve in ten — we used a lot of fuel getting out of the Alleghenies.”
“The reserve isn’t going to last long — we’re going to have to find a place to set down.”
These truths declare themselves to be self-evident. A bright glow appeared on the horizon — probably a city. Something to be avoided — they were pretty near invisible as long as they avoided densely populated areas.
With a sigh, Harry mashed his foot against the right tail rotor pedal, guiding the helo away from the lights and further west. At their current rate of consumption, they had another hour — hour and a half, in the air.
Maybe less.
It would have taken a drunk not to realize something was wrong as Tex and Thomas pulled into the small Sunoco off US Rt 33. Even the brandy wasn’t affecting him that much.
There were five patrol cars in front of the convenience store, three state and two bearing the logo of the Pendleton County Sheriff’s department. Either they’d had one deuce of an armed robbery, or…
His gaze drifted across the parking lot to the van emblazoned with the FBI shield. This wasn’t some hick cash-drawer-and-cigarettes holdup.
“Take a pass?” Thomas asked, glancing over at his companion.
The Texan shook his head, guiding the Malibu toward the only empty gas pump. “Not an option.”
The needle was dangerously close to “E”.
“Stay here,” Tex cautioned, removing the holstered Glock from inside the waistband of his jeans and tucking it under the seat. No sense in causing problems.
He swung his door open and stepped out into the chill night air, striding toward the convenience store, his Stetson pulled low over his eyes.
“Hundred and twenty on pump five,” he announced, sliding six bills across the counter toward the teenaged attendant. Gas money didn’t go very far these days.
The kid seemed to be moving on autopilot, his attention and that of several other patrons focused on the TV mounted in the corner. “What’s going on?” he asked, catching a glimpse of a blonde reporter on-screen, backlit by flashing lights. Your typical newsbabe.
“Where you been, dude?” the kid asked, tapping the amount into his register. “You see all the feds? Bunch of them got whacked over in Randolph County, just up the road from here. Something like thirty of ‘em dead, they got people comin’ in from all over.”